“Not a conversation for the phone. Sunday, then.”
The line went dead. Lucy tossed the phone onto the couch. Her hands were shaking.
“Mom?” Paige stood in the doorway with a textbook in her hands. “Was that Grandma?”
“Yes. They’re coming Sunday.”
“I don’t want to see them.”
“Paige…”
“They were always mean to you. I saw it. I’m not stupid.”
Lucy pulled her daughter close and hugged her.
“They’re your grandparents. They love you. They love your dad.”
She would take it. She had taken it for twelve years. Her daughter was twelve now and talked like an adult. When had that happened? When had Paige stopped being a child?
On Sunday Eleanor and Peter arrived exactly at noon. Black sedan, tailored coats, tight expressions. They gave Lucy a curt nod, but kissed the children warmly—even Paige, who stood stiff as a board.
“Well then, grandkids, how about lunch out?” Peter ruffled Ben’s hair. “Ice cream, pie, whatever you want.”
“What about Mommy?” Maddie asked.
“Mommy gets to rest. She needs a little time to herself.”
Lucy watched the children climb into the car. Paige turned and gave her mother a worried look. Lucy smiled back as if to say, It’s okay. Don’t worry. When the car drove off, she finally let herself cry. She stood in the middle of the empty kitchen and cried from helplessness, from hurt, from fear.
Two months. A month and a half left. And she still had no idea what to do. Her phone buzzed. A text from Susan: “I’ve got an idea. Coming tonight.” The idea turned out to be simple and a little crazy.
“My aunt,” Susan said, pacing the kitchen and waving her hands. “Remember I told you about her? Margaret Collins. She needs help around the house.”
“You mean housekeeping?”
“Call it whatever you want. Cleaning, cooking, grocery runs. Three half-days a week. She pays well. She lives alone and has money.”
“Sue, I can’t…”
“Can’t what? Work? Lucy, wake up. You’ve got three kids and six weeks before you can’t pay rent. Are you really in a position to be proud?”
Lucy said nothing. Pride. She had almost forgotten what that felt like. For the last thirteen years she had been Eric’s shadow. Wife. Mother. Homemaker. Nobody.
“When can I meet your aunt?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll call her right now.”
Margaret Collins turned out to be a small, wiry woman in her seventies with sharp eyes and a surprisingly firm handshake. She lived in an old house on the edge of town—not an apartment, but a real house with a yard and a screened porch.
“So you’re Susan’s friend,” she said, looking Lucy up and down. “Your husband left?”
“Yes.”
“Kids?”
“Three.”
“Ever worked?”
“A long time ago. Before I got married.”
Margaret grunted.
“Hands work? Can you cook?”
“Yes. I’ve been cooking for thirteen years.”
“Mind scrubbing floors?”
“No.”
“Hm.” Margaret narrowed her eyes. “Susan says you’re honest. That true?”
“I hope so.”
“You hope so,” the old woman said, then laughed unexpectedly. “All right. Come the day after tomorrow. Nine a.m. We’ll see what you’re made of.”
Lucy walked out of Margaret’s house with her heart pounding. It was a job. Odd, humbling maybe—what would Eric say if he knew his wife had gone to work as a housekeeper?—but it was work. Money. A chance.
That evening, for the first time in two weeks, she made a real dinner. Not frozen food, not sandwiches—actual beef stew, mashed potatoes, green beans. The children ate with appetite, and Lucy watched them, feeling something inside her slowly thaw.
“Mom, why are you smiling?” Ben looked up from his plate.
“No reason, honey. Just glad I have you.”
“What about Dad?”
“What about him?”
“Do you miss him?”
